


Fear

by violenteer



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Jason's dosed. Tim finds him strung out in a corner of the cave.





	Fear

The toxin doesn’t wear off for an entire forty-eight hours. During this time, the person affected is encouraged to isolate themselves, restrain themselves, and occupy their minds with the smallest thoughts possible in order to keep track of what they know to be organic versus what would grow from the cracked sidewalks of fear. There are specific places downtown that sell the toxin, and others that sell a comfortable place to wait the effects out. Each Borough has its own methods for dealing with something like Joker’s toxin. From inviting it, to rebuking it, to formulating it in mass quantities.

Jason used to be immune, before he died. Batman shot him up with more than a few cures. Gotham isn’t a friendly place, and the Rogues are almost every reason why. Their unique poisons, potions, and pollens are no idle threat. Not to anyone in Gotham, but especially not to someone like a Robin.

Damian hasn’t been dosed or cured, yet. Tim has dealt with Ivy’s concoctions alone, and Dick was the lab rat for most all drug that Batman’s enemies peddled. Jason assumed himself above the little drug game, but here he is in a corner of the Batcave biting into his leather glove. Forcing his callused hands red and purple, restricting blood flow to each of his fingers. Looking anxiously around the wide-open space and seeing so many different things. 

The most prominent thing Jason sees is Tim. He’s wearing sweats and his hair is messed up. From sleep, or from sleep deprivation. Jason can’t tell, and normally he doesn’t care to think much about it. But it’s the middle of the morning and he’s been alone for three hours. Jason welcomes any face that isn’t warped and white, green framing the grease-paint, red digging graves into the sides of his face, hands spindly over a – Jason blinks.

Tim hasn’t spoken yet, but he’s closer than he was before. His toes are three short strides from Jason's own, and he’s tipped forward, head tilted to the side in a show of curiosity. Or confusion. Jason can’t tell yet. There’s a good chance he won’t be able to tell even when Tim is closer. The toxin weaves its way in and out of Jason’s periphery quickly. When he detects a voice, it’s warped moments later. Doubt is strapped to each word he hears. It blows benign intentions sky-high, replacing them with gutted, gory re-imaginings that hurt.

“Are you going to stand there forever, replacement?” Jason spits.

His voice is barely above a frivolous whisper. He’s already screamed himself hoarse, but of course that was long before he got to the Manor. Going by Jason’s hazy understanding of time, he’s been sweating the Joker’s juice out of his system for eight hours. That means he has forty to go. It brings a hysterical little laugh to the surface, and Jason still smiles jaggedly even after he’s forced himself to lock that reaction down.

“Are you armed?” Tim asks. 

It says more than either of them will freely admit, though for Jason, it’s not out of shame or misunderstanding. He knows very well how each Bat works. He’s just fucking tired of it.

Are you armed, roughly translates into: if I come closer, will your reaction be defensive? Do you have the means to create a lasting defense? Are you lucid enough to understand you shouldn’t have weapons? Are you lucid? You’re smart enough to realize that even highly-trained vigilantes need to take steps to keep them and those around them safe, aren’t you, Robin? Dumb dead Robin? Dumb, undead Jason? Idiot. Fucking idiot.

“No.” Jason croaks, spreading his arms to invite a double-check.

The hair that he can see around Tim’s face glints an angry emerald. 

He comes closer, and Jason lets him. Tim’s fingers are nimble as they dance across each of Jason limbs. His secret catches, the ring of his belt. Pockets that line his chest plate, inside his empty thigh holster. The list goes on. Jason is, true to his word, harmless. The only protection he has is body and mind, and both are equally compromised.

Those affected by the toxin are usually isolated because even the most familiar face can change in a matter of seconds. Husbands and wives can look like demons, like killers and perverts and rapists. Like nightmares. Instinctual reactions for most in Gotham is fight or freeze. Flight is abnormal in Jason’s hometown. It’s abnormal to him, too. He would fight before he’d freeze, and even if Tim was more familiar to him now than he’d been months back, it doesn’t erase second nature.

Jason’s been afraid before, however. He’s even been around a familiar face turned nightmarish. In that worst-case scenario, he still prefers company to the hollow ache being alone brings. 

It’s why his hands shoot out to keep Tim in place when he begins to back away. It’s why he forces his mind to clear as much as it can to allow the reality of Tim being positive. Jason can’t be alone. He can’t be alone for forty hours straight. Not with himself or with his thoughts or with his memories or with his conscience. He can’t.

“How much longer do you have?” Tim asks.

He doesn’t even flinch before his own hands are settling delicately across Jason’s. It takes a control for Jason to realize he’s shaking.

“Little less than two days, by my count.” Jason tells him.

It’s good that Tim still sounds like Tim. It’s good that Jason’s fear hasn’t deconstructed their conversation, yet. But Jason knows it’s coming soon, so he has to tell Tim what he wants before. If Tim doesn’t know, he can’t give Jason what he wants, and if he doesn’t give Jason what he wants, Jason’ll go insane. It doesn’t matter if they don’t hate each other anymore. Jason’s flame will rekindle.

“I know I’m not Dick, but I need you to stick around. I don’t give a shit if you kick me out. I don’t care if Bruce – I don’t give a shit. I won’t be stringing thoughts together for long.” Jason sees a flash of red out of the corner of his eyes.

He focuses on that red even when it disappears into the recesses of his psyche. His jaw hangs slightly open. He forgets what he was going to say next. What was that? It almost looked like… it almost looked smug, like….

Jason’s hands clench around Tim’s sides. He drags Red Robin further into his broken bubble of personal space. Jason’s eyes sting. When was the last time he blinked?

“Do you know what you were exposed to?” Tim asks gently.

He’s smoothing Jason’s hair back from his face, now. His touch is so tender that Jason almost mistakes him for a dream. Some great interlude in the madness.

Jason reels.

**Author's Note:**

> unedited. i'll keep it real, it's vague as hell bc i'm just in it for the H/C. :)


End file.
